


Aftermaths

by Actinium



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambiguity, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death, Poetry, Underage Drinking, brief description of panic attacks, mention of suicide, pathos!Derek, sad!Stiles, too much angst, too much poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actinium/pseuds/Actinium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles loses someone and only Derek is around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermaths

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic. Sterek has taken over my life. All mistakes/terribleness are mine.  
> The story takes place at the start of season 3; however, there is a reference to something from the middle of 3B. Cannon for seasons 1 and 2.  
> See notes at the end for credits.

Derek pushes through the door of his loft, a stunned and bloody Stiles stumbling behind him. He quickly closes the door behind the teenager and leans against it, his heart still racing. It has been pounding in his chest since their flight from the warehouse. Stiles is panting from all the running, his eyes glazed and unseeing.

It was an effective, savage ambush set by the alpha pack that Derek, Scott, and their friends walked into. They had all known that the warehouse holding a captive Stiles was most likely a trap; however, they had all thought they could capably handle the situation. It had been a naïve thought, although the rescue was actually going well until Stiles' father showed up. Derek now knows that one of the alphas had informed the Sheriff of Stiles' plight; the father had predictably raced to the warehouse when he'd been told his son was in danger.

Derek still isn't sure why that alpha werewolf had involved Stile's father in the fight; he will probably never know. Maybe it was meant to be a fatal distraction or perhaps it was simply meant to cause pain and chaos. The latter was certainly the result when the Sheriff entered the warehouse completely unprepared to deal with a supernatural threat. He was attacked by one of the alphas almost immediately, claws tearing into his chest and ripping through skin, muscle and even bone.

Stiles' anguished scream as he ran to his dad's falling body acted as a catalyst for his embattled friends, or at least that's how it seemed to Derek. Scott howled loud enough to rival Lydia's banshee-like wail and even Derek felt his rage flare at the sight of the Sheriff's unmoving figure. They killed the alpha pack efficiently then, but were not quick enough to save the Sheriff. It wasn't long before Derek heard sirens and his instinct to flee took over; he pulled a numb Stiles from his father's corpse and the two bolted, the others scattering as the police arrived. Derek alternated between encouraging and dragging the teenager as they ran, cursing himself the entire way for not taking his Camaro to the warehouse. They didn't stop running until they were back at Derek's apartment.

Derek is still full of adrenaline as he looks at Stiles; the youth's breathing is more regular and Derek can hear his heart rate begin to normalize. Derek is unsure what he should do next now that their frantic flight is over, now that he has time to fully comprehend what's happened. What can he possibly say that Stiles will want to hear? Derek shoves himself off the door and walks to where Stiles is quietly standing with his thin shoulders hunched and his head down. Stiles' clothing is coated in his father's blood; his face and arms are smeared with it and his hair is a rust-coloured, sticky mess. Derek can't help but find the sight a little bit disturbing.

Derek says, "You need to get cleaned up. Come on." He firmly pushes Stiles into the bathroom and begins to remove Stiles' bloody t-shirt. Stiles flails at Derek, trying to slap the werewolf's hands off him. Derek drags Stiles' shirt off and he is met by a glare when Stiles' head reappears.

"I can undress myself, thanks. Derek, let go of my belt! Seriously, I'm fine. I'm fully capable of taking a shower on my own."

Derek grunts and exits the bathroom to find some clean clothes in his closet that might fit Stiles. After handing off the old t-shirt and sweat pants, Derek leaves Stiles to it. He stands outside the bathroom door until he hears the shower turn on, then heads to the kitchen.

It's these moments that Derek finds the hardest. Action always comes easy for him; he was born a werewolf, after all, and some amount of violence is to be expected with that kind of life. His mother taught him well in that regard. But the aftermath always leaves Derek feeling slightly adrift as the adrenaline seeps from his body and his mind is forced to start processing everything that's happened—as he begins to catalogue his losses and failures.

Derek opens his fridge and sighs when he sees that it's mostly filled with condiments and vegetables that he's pretty sure no one should be eating. His pantry is just as depressing, but he does find a can of chicken noodle soup. Derek will have to buy food soon. He puts the soup on the stove and sends a quick text to Scott.

The soup is ready by the time Stiles finishes showering. He emerges from the bathroom no longer looking like a serial killer; his hair is still damp when he joins Derek in the kitchen. Derek motions at Stiles to sit at the small table.

“I made soup,” Derek offers ineffectually. “Soup makes everyone feel better, right? I know it always used to cheer me up when my mother made it for me.” He did not mean to say that last part.

Stiles gives Derek a look that says he doesn't think Derek was ever cheery. “Sure, why not.” It's not really a question.

Derek watches as Stiles eats mechanically. He thinks the only reason Stiles finishes the bowl is because he's watching. Derek has never seen Stiles so quiet. _But at least he's eating,_ Derek tells himself. _That's a good sign, right?_

Derek is cleaning up the meal when his phone's text alert goes off. He reads the brief message from Scott, sends a quick reply, then turns to Stiles. “Alright, Scott wants to meet up to go over... what's happened. Develop a plan. That sound good?”

Stiles simply nods and goes to get his shoes. There is no flippant comment at the idea of Scott attempting to strategize. They wait for the elevator; Derek can easily hear the clunky grinding sounds as it approaches. He suddenly realizes that Stile's heartbeat is accelerating at the same rate as the elevator. Concerned, Derek turns to look at the teen.

Stiles' eyes are squeezed shut, his breathing laboured. Derek can see Stiles' hands shake and that he's broken out in a cold sweat. Stiles stumbles away from the door and presses his back against the wall, hunched over with his face in his hands.

Derek hurries over to Stiles. He grabs Stiles' trembling shoulders and forces him upright. “Stiles? What's wrong?”

“I... can't.... I... just....” Stiles mumbles through his fingers, words coming out in gasps.

“Can't what?” Derek recognizes a panic attack when he sees one, but he doesn't know what's triggered Stiles'. He gently pries Stiles' fingers from his face, tries to make it easier for the kid to breathe.

Stiles needs to take a shuddering breath and then another, deeper one before he's able to speak again. “I can't leave. I just can't. I don't want to go out there and face Scott and the rest of them. Not right now. Can't I just stay here, Derek, for awhile?” His voice is pleading and desperate.

Derek tries not to wonder how long 'awhile' will be. “It's okay, Stiles. You can wait here while I meet with Scott. I'll have to get some food too, so I might be gone for a bit. Are you sure you'll be alright by yourself?”

“Yeah, I'm feeling better now, I really I am.” Stiles takes a deep breath as if to prove to Derek that his panic attack has subsided. “I'll be fine. Just don't bring anyone back with you, okay? I just need some time alone, that's all.”

Derek completely understands that sentiment; maybe Stiles does really only need some space and privacy right now. _And he does seem calmer_ , Derek thinks, but he replies with, “Okay **.** No one in authority knows that you're here. I'll keep Peter away. I'll make sure you're left alone until you're ready to resurface in a few days.” Derek amends quickly, “Whenever you decide to resurface.”

“Great, thanks. Thanks, Derek.”

Derek tries not to be affected by the sincerity in Stiles' voice, but he finds himself asking again, “Are you sure you'll be fine?”

“Yup, fine. Perfectly fine. I'll probably just sleep for a bit; I'm pretty exhausted.”

“Wait, where's your phone?” Derek asks.

“I don't know; I must have dropped it at that warehouse or at some point on the way here. It's not really that important.”

Derek gives Stiles one last, measuring look. The youth returns it with such a practiced expression of innocence—a look that says 'I am merely a tired angel'—that it causes Derek to snort in mock exasperation as he walks out the door.

 

______________________________

 

Derek returns to the loft a few hours later, groceries in hand and feeling irate. Scott was not pleased that Derek had left Stiles alone and the young werewolf let Derek know at length what he thought about that decision. And then Derek needed to spend an inordinate amount of time convincing Scott that Stiles, in fact, did not want to see him and just wanted to be left alone for the time being. And then Derek had to convince Scott that he was perfectly competent to watch after Stiles for a few days. Derek did not mention his reluctance.

Derek enters the apartment, his nose immediately assaulted by the smell of alcohol. Derek doesn't really drink, but he keeps a liquor cabinet for those occasions when he feels like having one, or the rarer occasions when he has guests. And since being a werewolf makes intoxication difficult, the cabinet is usually well stocked.

Not anymore. Derek glances around at the liquor bottles scattered throughout his living space as he puts the groceries on the kitchen counter. There's a bottle of rum on top of the television and vodka balancing precariously on the edge of the small table by the couch. A bottle of rye stands at the floor by the computer table and a bottle of gin sits on the coffee table. All are open. By the smell, Derek knows there are more that he hasn't located, and their combined smells are making him feel nauseated.

“Stiles...” Derek calls out warily. There's a small squeak and Stiles' head slowly rises from the back of the couch.

“Derek,” Stiles mumbles, and it comes out more like 'Drek.' “You're back! How's the gang? The pack? How was the grocery store? Did you happen to buy curly fries? Did you—”

“What are you doing, Stiles?” Derek asks patiently. It's pretty obvious that Stiles is getting drunk, is most likely already drunk, and Derek understands why he is doing this, but he has to say something.

“A sampling! Of liquors! You know me: I get easily overwhelmed by variety, so I decided to try them all. Rate them!” Stiles practically yells the last part, as if he's unsure what volume he should be talking with.

“I see....” Derek says, frowning, his dark eyebrows drawing together. He walks around the couch.

Stiles is sprawled on the sofa, a bottle in his hand. He smiles beatifically up at Derek and takes a drink from the bottle. He coughs, gasps, and then grimaces. “We are giving peppermint schnapps a rating of 3.2, because this shit is disgusting.” Stiles takes another swig.

Derek takes the bottle from Stiles. He tries to do it gently, but he's not sure how successful he is when Stiles resists and there's some wrenching involved. He looks around for the cap, doesn't find it, then places the bottle on the low table in front of the couch.

Stiles produces a small bottle of Jack Daniel's from _between the couch cushions_ and takes a defiant gulp, staring at Derek with something approaching hostility. This one goes down smoother. “Mhmm. We rate this one a 7.6, we think. Deep flavour with a nice bite,” Stiles pronounces, barely managing to not slur any of the words.

Derek takes a deep breath. He exhales slowly. Stiles is frowning at him, daring him to try to take the Jack from Stiles. Derek is not ready to stoop to wrestling the bottle out of the kid's grip. Not yet at least. He merely raises an eyebrow and says, “No need to be petulant, Stiles. Go ahead, drink yourself into a coma.” He goes to sit on the table, realizes there's alcohol spilled all over it, decides to stay standing with his arms crossed over his chest. Derek can wait this out. He tries to keep an indifferent expression on his face as Stiles obstinately goes to town on the Jack Daniel's.

“Derek, what's your favourite liquor? Liqueur?” Stiles is definitely slurring his words now, syllables mushing together, enunciation long gone. “Amaretto? Frangelico? _Fran_ gelico. Fran _gel_ ico.” Stiles chuckles to himself at the word, his mood completely shifted from the mutinous of just a few minutes ago, but he seems to have no real interest in Derek's answer as he casually lists to one side, his eyelids half-closing.

Derek is ready to end this ugly scene, to drag Stiles to bed, when his phone beeps loudly. It startles Stiles, who jerks to alertness, almost throwing his body off the couch. The bottle of whiskey goes flying from his slackened grip, thudding to the floor and spinning lazily, whiskey spewing everywhere.

Derek's had enough. He has never been able to manage patience with Stiles, for some reason, and he thinks his efforts have been frankly superhuman this evening. He checks his phone, makes a promise to himself to text Scott an update on Stiles later, and hauls Stiles to his feet. Stiles just stands there, leaning so far sideways that Derek has to grab Stiles' forearm to prevent him from falling over. Stiles' only reaction is to look at the older man with a befuddled expression on his face.

Derek half pushes, half carries Stiles to his bedroom. Unfortunately, Stiles has gained some kind of second wind and has become animated enough to complain the whole way: “Derek, let me go. I have more samples to imbue... imbed... imbibe. Come on, you can drink with me and we can gossip and giggle. We can toast the dead. All the dead with all the booze! We can have glaring contests, because I've totally been practising in your bathroom mirror and I'm pretty awesome at it now.”

Derek refuses to respond to that; anger and bitterness and a sense of helplessness suddenly twist in his stomach. He sits the teenager carefully on the end of his bed, Stiles swaying slightly. Derek knows that his room will reek of alcohol for the foreseeable future, but it's not important. Derek gets on his knees to untie the laces of Stiles' shoes. He feels hands on his shoulders and looks up into Stiles' face, whose brown eyes are wide and bright and unfocused. Stiles has stopped swaying, steadied by his hands on Derek's shoulders. Stiles' eyes focus on Derek as if he's seeing him for the first time and he suddenly leans in to Derek and kisses him. Except he misses and kisses Derek's stubbled cheek, his dry lips starting to slide off Derek's face as his equilibrium vanishes.

Derek jumps up, startled, and pushes Stiles away, straightening him into something resembling a sitting position. “Stiles, stop!” Derek growls, resisting the urge to shake him. Derek isn't disgusted, though: Stiles is attractive in an awkward, abstract kind of way.

“Hmm, what?” Stiles responds vaguely. Derek thinks that what's just happened hasn't even registered with Stiles, as if he did it just because he could, and now that it's passed it's not even worth remembering. Stiles' heartbeat is steady. Had remained steady through everything—deliberate and lethargic. The anti-Stiles heartbeat. Derek hates seeing Stiles like this: barely recognizable as the teen who effortlessly aggravated him, who was usually so smart, except when he was being so stupidly brave.

“You're drunk.” Derek says it like he's not stating the obvious.

“Yes, I am. Drunk. It happens. It's happened. What's your damn point?”

“This isn't a good way to deal with grief.” Derek tries to keep the anger and frustration out of his voice. He really does. And Derek is not the poster-boy for dealing with grief,he _knows_ that , but he doesn't know how to deal with this. _How do you help someone mourn when you've been constantly mourning the death of your family for years?_ Derek wonders, feeling powerless and not for the first time.

Stiles drops back onto Derek's bed, his feet dangling over the edge. The silence stretches until Derek thinks Stiles has finally passed out. He bends down, grabs Stiles' right leg and begins to work off the right shoe.

“People deal with grief in different ways,” Stiles begins, his voice hollow. Derek stops pulling on the shoe, but he's not even sure if Stiles is really talking to him. “Some people get drunk or high. Others creepily loiter in shadowy corners and stalk newly turned werewolves. Still others have panic attacks in their kitchens when my father tries to get me to leave the house, but I can't leave because I can't breathe, and whenever I do leave the house it's because my mother is slowly dying in a hospital or is eventually lying dead in a funeral home, and maybe it's my fault, and then I feel like I'm going to pass out and reality slips away only to return with my father's face looking desperate and concerned and so sad....” Stiles trails off, his chest heaving, and Derek holds his breath, afraid to move, and tries not to stagger from the confession. He doesn't think Stiles would want him to actually hear this, to _know_ this revelation. But Stiles is silent again.

Derek waits, frozen, unsure what to do until he realizes that the teenager has finally fallen asleep. He lets out a relieved breath and gently finishes removing Stiles' shoes. He walks over to the side of the bed, carefully drags Stiles up until his head is on the pillow. After getting Stiles some water and placing a bucket by the side of the bed, Derek walks out of his bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him.

Derek turns off the lights and walks over to the couch, too tired to start cleaning up all the half-drunk bottles. He sits down, stares out his large window. The moon is barely half-full as it hangs languorously above the horizon. Time passes. The moon slowly slinks across the sky, shadows extending to cover Derek's motionless body. And Derek is self-aware enough to realize that what he's doing is something close to a vigil, but he doesn't know whether it's for the Sheriff or his own family, for Stiles or himself.

 

______________________________

 

It's past noon when Stiles emerges cautiously from the bedroom. Derek is on the couch, not really watching the television he has ostensibly been looking at for the last two hours, ever since he finished cleaning up the acrid, sticky mess left by a drunk Stiles. Stiles flops down on the other side of the couch with a groan, his head in his hands. He sits unmoving, not even twitching.

Normally, when faced with a hungover teenager in his apartment, Derek would have turned on every loud appliance he owned, blasted obnoxious music and really wished he'd gotten around to buying that drum kit, but it doesn't really feel appropriate this time. He asks instead, “How are you feeling, Stiles?”

“Sweet werewolf Jesus, Derek, there's no need to roar, not this early in the morning.” Stiles glances at the clock above the television. “Afternoon, whatever. Can't we just talk in whispers or whatever the hell the werewolf equivalent to whispering is? Purring? Whimpering? I don't know, just please, no more loud voices.”

Derek merely grunts and it sounds nothing like a _purr_. By Stiles' untroubled face—if sweaty and nauseous can be called untroubled—it's clear that he doesn’t remember what happened last night, which, Derek decides, is probably for the best.

“I feel like my brain has turned to shrapnel and is relentlessly scraping against my skull,” Stiles offers after a minute. “I feel like I've been repeatedly passed through a water mill. 'O mill, what hast thou ground? Precious thy wheat....'” Stiles laughs jaggedly and seems to regret it immediately.

“What?” Derek asks. There is something off with Stiles' tone.

“Nothing. Just a poem I once read in a book of old love poems and ballads. A decidedly unromantic poem, when I think about it.”

Derek can absolutely picture scenarios where Stiles is reading love poetry; most of them involve Lydia. Derek lets it slide. “Hmm, okay. Do you want something to eat?” He reaches across the couch and shakes Stiles' shoulder companionably.

Stiles squints his eyes shut. His hands grip his knees as he moans tightly. He swallows audibly before saying, “Sweet unicorn Jesus, Derek, are you trying to freaking kill me?”

“Unicorn Jesus?” Derek says, raising an eyebrow.

“What about it? If Jesus had a spirit animal it would totally be a unicorn.”

Derek makes a sound that lets Stiles know how crazy Derek thinks he is.

“Hey! They're in the Bible! 'Canst thou bind the unicorn with his band in the furrow? Or will he harrow the valleys after thee? Wilt thou trust him, because his strength is great? Or wilt thou leave thy labour to him?' See, unicorns.”

“Where did you read that?”

“Oh, I don't know, I think it was in _the Bible_.”

Derek can't help himself; he throws a pillow at Stiles and his smug voice. “You read the Bible for the unicorns?”

“Well, for the unicorns and for all the righteous vengeance: 'He hath as it were the strength of a unicorn: he shall eat up the nations his enemies, and shall break their bones, and pierce them through with his arrows.'”

And Stiles is laughing, genuinely laughing, as Derek throws all the pillows at him.

 

______________________________

 

Derek wakes from his nap feeling groggy. His room, and his bed in particular, smell of Stiles and stale alcohol. Derek stretches forcefully, joints cracking, and gets out of bed to check on Stiles. He seemed in a better mood compared to yesterday, content to nurse his hangover and watch cooking shows on television. Derek took the opportunity to try and get some rest.

It is early evening now, the sun just about set, the sky an ombré of blues fading to black. The light in Derek's living space is muted, the only source of illumination the desk lamp on the computer table where Stiles sits hunched over, staring at the screen of Derek's computer. He has a thin blanket wrapped around himself. His hair is dishevelled, thick strands spiking from his head.

Derek approaches the teenager, dragging his feet to ensure that Stiles hears him. The last thing he wants to do is scare the kid. “Hey Stiles, how's it going?” When there is no response, he attempts another, “Stiles?”

“Oh, hey Derek. Did you sleep okay?” Stiles asks perfunctorily, not taking his eyes off the glowing screen.

“What are you doing, Stiles?” Derek finds himself asking for the second time in as many days.

There is a long pause. “Reading.”

“What are you reading?” Stiles doesn't bother answering. “Stiles? Stiles! Look at me!” Stiles remains unresponsive and Derek realizes that he has never seen the youth so still. His limbs are slack, his breathing shallow. Alarm begins to slowly creep into Derek's chest, his ribs tightening and his heart rate increasing. He grabs at the headrest of the chair and swivels it around so that Stiles is facing him.

Derek takes an involuntary step back. Stiles looks terrible; his skin is paler than normal, almost ashen. The dark circles under his eyes are like bruises, as if his lashes have been pummelling the delicate skin underneath his lids His eyes are black and empty in the dimly lit room.

“What are you reading, Stiles?” Derek asks again. Calmly.

Stiles blankly stares at him for a moment. He blinks slowly then finally answers, “Just some poetry.”

“I see. More love poems?”

“No. I decided to research poets who committed suicide.” Stiles' voice is as empty as his eyes. “Found some good ones. There's everyone's favourite, Sylvia Plath: 'They loll forever in colossal sleep; / Nor can God's stern, shocked angels cry them up / From their fond, final, infamous decay.' How about John Berryman? 'Once in a sycamore I was glad / all at the top, and I sang. / Hard on the land wears the strong sea / and empty grows every bed.' My favourite so far is Anne Sexton: 'And what of the dead? They lie without shoes / in their stone boats. They are more like stone / than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse / to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.'”

It's Derek's turn to stare at Stiles as the lines tumble carelessly from his lips. Derek fleetingly wonders if Stiles is high. It can't be alcohol this time, because Derek poured every remaining drop down the sink this morning during his cleanup. But the only drugs he has in his loft are Tylenol, and you can't get high off Tylenol, no matter how many you....

Derek is sure his heart no longer beats. Then it surges back to life, its rhythm accelerating until he thinks his heart will surely fly from his chest. Derek lets out an almost feral growl and launches himself at Stiles, hurling him out of the chair and slamming him against the wall hard enough for his head to bounce off.

“What the fuck did you do, Stiles?”

Stiles gazes vacantly at him for a minute, then his eyes widen. “Sweet yeti Jesus, Derek, get your hands off me!” He tries to pry Derek's hands from his shoulders, but Derek has extended his claws and they have pierced through the thin fabric of Stiles' t-shirt, are close to piercing his skin as well. Failing to free himself of the werewolf's grasp, Stiles tries to sink into the wall behind him instead. “Wow, I should have known that even poetry would provoke violence from you.”

Derek is standing very close, using his larger frame to hover menacingly over Stiles, their faces almost pressed together. His knows his eyes have turned an electric blue. Derek shakes Stiles and growls again, “What did you do?”

“Nothing! I didn't do anything! I'm fine, just relax already.”

Derek listens to Stiles' heartbeat. It's racing, but Derek thinks that Stiles is telling the truth. He has to be sure though. “You didn't take anything? Or are planning to....?” He trails off, unable to complete the sentence.

Stiles scowls at Derek's questions. “What? No! You think that just because my dad's dead I would try and commit suicide? I wouldn't do that, Derek. Besides, I'm pretty sure you don't have anything worth overdosing on, except for maybe aspirin. Which, by the way, would be a terrible way to try and kill yourself. I'm pretty sure it would take _days,_ and that's just inefficient. _”_

Derek doesn't find this remotely funny, though he's loosened his grip on Stiles and retracted his claws. Stiles' heart rate has slowed to a more regular rhythm and Derek can't detect any lies. “Then what was with those... poems?”

“Fuck, it was _not_ an unsubtle cry for help, Derek. It's just.... It's just, they make me, you know, feel a bit better. Sort of.” Stiles has slumped against the wall, seemingly drained of all energy. “Sadness begets sadness, I guess.”

“A 'misery loves company' type of thing?” Derek ventures, trying to understand. He has never really understood Stiles.

“Let's try and avoid clichés.”

Derek glares at Stiles until the teenager starts talking again. “I don't know, I just felt the need to revel in that sadness a little bit. It's hard to explain. It makes me feel... well, not good, but better.”

Derek is not sure if that's really true, but he releases Stiles, steps back and clasps his hands behind his back to hide the fact that they're trembling. “I see,” Derek responds simply.

Stiles lets out a loud breath and runs a hand through his hair. He goes back to the computer. Derek can see an internet browser with approximately seventeen thousand tabs open before Stiles efficiently closes them all with a click of the mouse and walks towards the bedroom.

Derek has consciously been giving Stiles space and time to deal with his father's murder; they were the two things that Derek had craved right after the fire, right after he had lost his own family. But maybe it is the wrong approach with Stiles.

“Stiles....” The teenager stops, still turned away from Derek, and Derek wishes fervently that he was better at this. Better at connecting with people, reaching out, accepting vulnerability and being vulnerable in turn. “We can talk. About whatever you want. Whenever you want.” And when Stiles remains motionless, a brittle statue that may or may not fracture at any given moment, he adds, a little desperately, “You _love_ to talk.”

Stiles merely shakes his head minutely and enters the bedroom and silently closes the door behind him.

Derek is sitting back on the couch trying not to think of the porcelain statuette collection in his old family home, the collection that his mother loved so much, when Stiles returns a few minutes later and says, “I'm sorry, Derek. I know it was stupid and morbid and I didn't mean to... to concern you. I would really appreciate it if you didn't mention this to anyone. Please.” His voice cracks slightly on the last word and Derek notices that same strange tone in his voice from earlier in the day.

“It's okay, Stiles. I won't. Don't worry. It's okay,” he tries again, helplessly.

Stiles nods, his face looking less pale, and walks back into the bedroom.

Derek is not sure why—maybe it's the way Stiles sounded—but he feels compelled to return to the computer. And despite what Stiles has claimed many times in the past, Derek does know how to use the internet. He opens up Internet Explorer, navigates to AltaVista and types in his query. It doesn't take him long to find what he is looking for, nor does it take him long to read it.

 

______________________________

 

It's well past midnight when Stiles emerges from Derek's bedroom. Derek is again sitting on his couch, his eyes fixed on the view out his window. Scott has sent Derek another text inquiring after Stiles, but Derek doesn't have the energy to respond to it right now. The loft is dark except for pale lozenges of moonlight painting discrete regions of the floor and walls, but Derek has no problem seeing in the low light.

Derek shifts imperceptibly as he watches Stiles silently walk across the living area to the kitchen like a transient wraith ghosting through the still apartment. _Before me floats an image, man or shade, / Shade more than man, more image than a shade_. The lines come unbidden and unwelcome to Derek's mind. It's almost definitely due to the scene with Stiles earlier that day, but Derek ruthlessly pushes the memory and those lines away.

He focuses instead on watching Stiles as he reaches the fridge and removes a bottle of water. Stiles is retracing his steps back to the bedroom when he suddenly stumbles, tripping over his own feet. The plastic bottle drops soundlessly from his hands and rolls to a stop against the wall. Stiles bends to pick it up, but stops, his hands hovering over the bottle. He holds the awkward pose for a minute as if he's physically incapable of completing the movement, until, giving up, he sits down beside the bottle, back against the wall.

Derek is unsure of what to do. He has felt this way the entire time, really—out of his depth. He wishes that it had been Scott here with Stiles instead of himself; Scott knows Stiles, would know what to do. Derek hesitates, but he goes to Stiles and sits down cross-legged in front of him. Derek doesn't need his werewolf hearing to notice Stiles' erratic breathing. The teenager has drawn his knees up to his chest, hands clenching the fabric of his sweat pants. Derek is at a loss for words again. He doesn't know how to breach this silence; he realizes that maybe he is afraid to.

Derek has always found Stiles difficult to predict, to interpret. Their first encounter was brief, Stiles barely registering, and their second was under painful circumstances: Stiles unearthing the corpse of Derek's recently dead sister and then accusing him of the murder. It was an act of casual cruelty and perhaps this coloured Derek's initial impression of Stiles. It definitely informed those early interactions between the two of them as Derek was casually cruel in return. He viewed Stiles as merely a spastic, annoying, sarcastic kid; a bumbling sidekick to a recently-turned-werewolf Scott. But somehow Stiles transformed into an eager almost-ally, ready to help Derek—to even save Derek—without ever asking anything in return despite Derek's habitual remoteness. And at some point Derek's opinion—his perception—of Stiles shifted. He can admit now that he cares for the teenager; his heart can break for the boy huddled before him.

It is Stiles who eventually breaks the silence without making eye contact with Derek. “We have a lot in common, you know.” He is trying to sound dispassionate, but Derek can hear the quaver in his voice. “We both like soup. We both killed our families.”

Derek is taciturn by nature, has been since he was a kid. He rarely feels the need to speak, to explain, but he'd never met someone who could render him so consistently speechless—who could so effortlessly and systematically strip the words from his lips, from his brain—until he met Stiles. It takes Derek a long moment before he can respond. “That's not true. You know that's not true, Stiles.” For Derek, only half of Stiles' brutal statement is a lie: Derek was as much at fault as Kate for what happened to his family. “What happened to your father _is not your fault_ , you couldn't—”

“No! Dad would not have... encountered werewolves if not for me.” Stiles' young face twists with bitterness and self-loathing, the smooth skin of his cheeks flushed and blotchy. “If I had not been an idiot, not rushed into that trap, he wouldn't have been forced to come to my rescue. He would never have been in that warehouse in the first place! His body would not have been mangled by an alpha's claws, his skin shredded, his chest pumping blood in fitful spurts, his eyes so full of pain. I was right there, Derek, beside him, as he died. I felt his hand slacken in mine when he _died_. I was covered in his blood and I felt—”

“'The grain which the mill has ground is not oats but blood-red wheat.'” It is the only thing Derek can think of to say that might shock Stiles out of his harrowed recollection. Because, in this moment, Derek understands Stiles, fiercely empathizes with him like he has with no one else before.

Stiles finally looks at him, his brown eyes wet and surprised. “How do you...? Where did you...?”

“I actually used the internet and looked it up earlier. And listen to me, Stiles, you are not to blame; _you are not the mill_. None of this is your fault—not your father, not your mother.”

“My mother? Why would you say that?”

Derek unwillingly thinks back to last night and Stiles' drunken description of the aftermath of his mother's death. “You said you were responsible for killing your family. You said 'family' instead of 'father.'” Derek hopes this is a sufficient explanation.

Stiles gives him a strange look. He opens his mouth only to close it quickly. When he opens it again, it's to ask, “What do you know about my mother's death?” The words are reluctant and harsh in the preternatural quiet that always surrounds everything this late at night.

Derek doesn't think he can cope with another revelation from Stiles, but he responds anyways. “Not much. Just that she had some kind of sickness and died when you were young.”

“She had frontotemporal dementia: a neurodegenerative disease that basically causes someone's brain to start atrophying. To a ten-year-old, it just looks like his mom is going crazy.” Stiles pauses and Derek doesn't say anything, simply waits. Eventually, Stiles looks away from Derek, staring into empty space, and resumes. “I know I wasn't the easiest kid to raise: I had too much energy, could never sit still. I asked too many questions and could never stay focused on something for very long. Mom often said that I was driving her insane, as I'm sure ninety percent of parents tell their children at some point. But my mother had cause to say it _a lot_. And then she started changing. Her behaviour became erratic, compulsive; she went from depressed to completely reckless—the doctors called it disinhibition. She thought she was losing her mind; I actually overheard her say that to my dad once, right before she was hospitalized.” Stiles takes a fortifying breath. “Soon after that she died. And I knew it was my fault for being so difficult, for literally making her go crazy. I realize now how irrational that is, but at ten I _believed_ it and believed it for a long time. It's something that will always be with me, that guilt.” Stiles looks fully at Derek now, tears discreetlytraversing his cheeks. “You know, I've never admitted that to anyone—definitely not my dad, not even Scott.”

Derek's mind is seared of all thought; his chest feels tight as if his ribs are trying to compress the air from his lungs. His limbs are immobilized with inactionand he is sinking, drowning in the aftermath of Stiles' words. When he can think again it's of his own family, dying when he was nineteen—older than Stiles is now. Derek has felt ripped open since it happened, shorn of pleasure and purpose, hope and security. That feeling of emptiness only intensified when his sister Laura was killed six years later. He has no idea what it would be like to be ten years old and to face that. To face it again at seventeen. Hethoroughlyunderstands why 'apocalypse' means 'revelation' in Greek.

Derek takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Seeing Stiles like this, hearing how he has suffered in silence for so long, how he has paralleled Derek's dark journey in so many ways, finally dismantles something in Derek, opens a door he thought closed forever. He closes his eyes, physically unable to reply to Stiles' admission and hating himself for it.

“I've come to realize that the worst part is the loneliness. How do you live with something like that?” Stiles asks.

Derek isn't sure if the question is rhetorical, but it finally forces him to respond. “I try not to dwell on it, try not to think about them.” He shrugs; he's finished with struggling against everything. “It doesn't really work.” It definitely hasn't been working lately, not with Stiles unknowingly destroying all of Derek's barriers.

Derek hears himself continue, his voice hushed, “Truthfully, I've been thinking about my family a lot recently, my mother in particular. One of her favourite rituals when I was a child was to read to me and my siblings, usually as we were about to go to bed. She read us a lot of different things: fairy tales, science fiction stories, adventure stories that I couldn't get enough of. But her absolute favourite, what she always came back to, was the poem _Byzantium_ by W. B. Yeats. I must have heard it ten thousand times. Ten thousand times I sat close to her side on the couch as she recited it, feeling safe and drowsy next to her warmth, her hand idly smoothing my hair. My mother always said the poem gave her hope, reminded her of the beauty in life and even the beauty in death. I didn't really get it as a child, but it's haunted me. I've tried hard to forget it, have failed even at that.”

Now that Derek's started, he can't seem to stop talking. He's not sure, for once, if he really wants to stop. Stiles is staring at him with an expression that's so open and vulnerable, and Derek is compelled to offer the rest to Stiles. He recites,

        “Before me floats an image, man or shade,  
        Shade more than man, more image than a shade;  
        For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth  
        May unwind the winding path;  
        A mouth that has no moisture and no breath  
        Breathless mouths may summon;  
        I hail the superhuman;  
        I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.”

And Derek is close to falling apart, but it's Stiles who crumbles. A guttural, choking sound escapes his throat and then Stiles' whole body is heaving as the sobs are propelled out of him. Derek doesn't hesitate; he unfolds his legs, moves close to Stiles and kneels in front of him. He reaches out, wraps his arms around the shaking teenager and presses Stiles tightly to him. Stiles' hands latch desperately on to Derek, fingers twisting in Derek's shirt.

Derek doubts it's the actual words of the poem that have finally elicited this response from Stiles; maybe Derek's own implacable grief has somehow transferred itself to Stiles, pushed him over the edge; perhaps Stiles has just reached that point where he can truly grieve. _The reasons don't really matter,_ Derek tells himself as his right hand travels up Stiles' back, squeezes his neck, and continues until it rests on top of Stiles' head. His fingers run soothingly through the youth's short hair as Stiles cries and cries. Derek recognizes that his actions are now certain where only a short time ago they would have been tentative; Derek _knows_ he can be here for Stiles in a way that Derek had never let anyone be there for himself.

 

______________________________

 

Annoyingly bright sunlight streaming into Derek's bedroom wakes him the next morning. He feels more rested than he has in days. He glances at Stiles beside him, but the teen is still peacefully asleep. Derek stares at the ceiling, simply enjoying the stillness and contentment of the moment.

Derek has a hard time reconciling the tranquil Stiles in his bed with the heartbroken Stiles of last night. Stiles cried against Derek for a long time, incapable of forming words. Derek held him patiently, giving Stiles the time to breakdown and providing the space that Stiles needed to cling to.Eventually, the sobbing faded to mere weeping and even those tears stopped after awhile. Derek then led a dazed and exhausted Stiles to his bedroom and tried to ignore the eerie sense of déjà vu. This time, Stiles went willingly; he even removed his own shoes and t-shirt before lying weakly down on the mattress. Without thinking about, Derek removed his shirt and jeans. Wearing only his boxer briefs, Derek climbed into bed beside Stiles, needing the comforting heat of physical contact as mush as Stiles did. He remained close to Stiles in sleep through the rest of the night.

Stiles stirs now, cautiously opening one eye then the other. He turns his head to look at Derek lying next to him and smiles hesitantly. “Hey,” he says.

Derek finds himself returning a small smile of his own. “Hey.”

“About last night—”

“There's nothing to say. Nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about.”

Stiles looks confused. “I wasn't—I'm not—embarrassed. I just wanted to say thanks, that's all. Thanks for being there last night. Thanks for listening and for talking. Thanks for putting up with me these past few days. Thanks for being super awesome in the face of me not being super awesome. Thanks for everything, really.”

_Stiles is not me_ , Derek wryly reminds himself. _He doesn't often see the need to hide how he feels_ . Derek still finds it difficult to have these kinds of conversations—to express _emotions_ —at night, let alone in the light of day. He tries not to let on how uncomfortable he is all of a sudden.

“Sure.” It's the only thing Derek can think to say; he hopes it doesn't sound dismissive. “Do you want some breakfast?” It may or may not be an attempt to change the topic.

“Sure,” Stiles mocks, lowering his voice in an imitation of Derek's. “But I'm going to make it; you go shower or do werewolf-yoga or something. What do you want to eat?”

“Anything but soup.” It just comes out of Derek's mouth as if the last mention of soup didn't lead to the most devastating conversation ever. He feels the back of his neck flush and is relieved when Stiles just laughs. And then it's Derek's turn to laugh as Stiles flails, trying unsuccessfully to disentangle himself from the blankets, only to end up on the floor. Derek tries to maintain a straight face as he helps the teenager unwrap himself from the blankets and then helps him stand.

Derek casually removes his underwear in front of Stiles and goes to shower as Stiles throws on one of Derek's shirts and heads for the kitchen. Derek has _no_ idea what werewolf-yoga is supposed to be; he seriously wonders what Stiles thinks werewolves actually do in their free time. He washes quickly and then joins Stiles in the kitchen. Stiles is almost finished preparing breakfast and soon they're eating eggs, bacon and toast in a comfortable silence—well, not true silence since Stiles hums to himself as he chews.

Derek is clearing up after the meal when he receives another text from Scott asking after Stiles.

Stiles lets out a small sigh, stands up from the table and says, “I guess I should go see Scott. He's probably freaking out and gnawing on all the furniture.”

Derek can hear the contrition in Stiles' voice. “Scott _is_ worried about you, Stiles, but mainly I think he just misses you.” Derek doesn't think the pair have ever gone two days without talking before. “Are you sure you're ready to leave?”

Stiles shrugs. “I already miss my dad desperately; I've been missing my mom for years. I know that will never change. But I have to resurface eventually, like you said, and face reality at some point. It might as well be today. I think I can do it.” Stiles hesitates then asks, “Will you come with me, though? I know I'll have Scott to help, but—”

“You'll have me as well,” Derek says simply. He feels... protective of Stiles all of a sudden.

Stiles gives him such a surprised look that Derek is almost offended. Annoyed, Derek grabs Stiles and pulls him into a hug. He initially does it to be contrary, but there's real affection and sincerity and honesty in it, and it's not awkward when Stiles hugs him back.

The hug doesn't last long, yet afterwards Derek feels closer to being whole than he has in years.

They're about to walk out the door when Stiles stops abruptly.

“Wait. Last night.... We didn't have sex, did we?” Stiles asks. “I would know if we had sex, right? I mean, you were pretty much naked when I woke up this morning.”

“No.”

“No, we didn't have sex, or no, I wouldn't know if we did, or no, you weren't pretty much naked?”

Derek groans in exasperation. “No, we didn't have sex, Stiles.” The idea doesn't repel him like it might have a few days ago. It might even make feel the opposite of repelled.

“Oh.” Derek thinks he might have heard disappointment in Stiles' voice, but he's not sure. And then Stiles quotes, “'Wilt thou believe him, that he will bring home thy seed, and gather it into they barn?'” He laughs with pure delight, his eyes shining.

“You and your damned unicorn Bible quotes,” Derek says, shaking his head fondly. But it reminds Derek of another line. _Wilt thou trust him, because his strength is great?_ It echoes in Derek's head, taking on a new meaning: Perhaps Stiles was subconsciously referring to Derek when he said it before, especially now that his father is dead. Stiles needs someone to trust, to rely on, and maybe Derek needs to be that pillar for someone. _I can be that pillar for Stiles,_ Derek decides.

_Stiles deserves a new beginning. I'm allowed to have one, too_ , Derek thinks as he nudges Stiles out the door, his hand lingering on Stiles' shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope the Derek/Stiles tag wasn't misleading, but I've been obsessed with the journey of how Stiles and Derek can come together, and I believe they achieve a certain intimacy by the end.
> 
> Credits:
> 
> "O mill, what hast through ground? Precious thy wheat!  
> It is not oats thou hast ground, but the offspring of Kervall.  
> The grain which the mill has ground is not oats but blood-red wheat;  
> With the scions of the great tree, Mailoran's mill was fed."  
> \-- Anonymous
> 
> "Canst thou bind the unicorn with his band in the furrow?..." Job 39:10-12 (King James Version)
> 
> "He hath as it were the strength of an unicorn..." Numbers 24: 8 (King James Version)
> 
> "They loll forever in colossal sleep..." - Sylvia Plath, "The Dead"
> 
> "Once in a sycamore I was glad..." - John Berryman, "Dream Song 1"
> 
> "And what of the dead? They lie without shoes..." - Anne Sexton, "The Truth the Dead Know"
> 
> "Before me floats an image, man or shade..." - W. B. Yeats, "Byzantium"


End file.
